


Julian Week Fics

by RingtailNightmare



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Coffee, F/M, Field Medic AU, Flower Crowns, Flower-based Analogies, Fluff, Gen, Gore, If you squint you can see a life lesson here, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Julian Week, Letters, Picnics, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, failing at brewing coffee, give the boy a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-31 05:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13968663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RingtailNightmare/pseuds/RingtailNightmare
Summary: These are the oneshots I wrote for Julian week over on tumblr. I thought you guys might want to see them too~ My fem!Apprentice Olivier reappears in some of these! Also, I did art for some of the days, so it won't be seven full oneshots. If you want to check that art out, scoot on over to my tumblr @rowdyravenrattles~Shameless advertisement over.Rated Mature for gore on day three.





	1. Day 2: Endearment

She didn’t know how it ended up this way.

One minute, she had been pouring water slowly over the coffee grounds, after milling them so carefully in the mysterious contraption she’d tracked down at the import market, through the peculiar paper that held the carefully milled grounds, into the almost teapot-like carafe below it. She had done it exactly how the shopkeeper had told her. She assumed it would be as easy as he made it look. The next minute, though, there was a leak, an overflow, and a growing mess on the counter top.

She tried to adjust the coffee filter with her bare fingers, forgetting that the water that had soaked it was boiling hot. She had winced away and toppled the coffee-brewing kit from her jerky movement, making all of the grounds spill out onto the counter. She had attempted to catch it on instinct, crying out as the steaming grounds had fallen into her hand, making her jerk her hand again and make the spill worse. A pool of brown-black liquid started to waterfall to the floor, where her toes stung from the hot liquid splashing against them. She yelped and danced away from the forming pool, setting the hot water pot down and scrambling away.

“Stop! Please!” she cried aloud as she grabbed the nearest towel and tried to dam the spill. It soaked through the fabric with little effort, slowing the flow but still pooling out further. She let out a small scream of distress before her heightened emotions pulled a desperate spell from her hands, freezing the puddle instantly. She watched as the frost crawled up and dammed off the waterfall, creating a frozen chunk of congealed coffee grounds on her counter top and frosting the little bit of coffee that had managed to drip into the carafe.

“Ollie, are you okay?” Julian’s voice approached from the doorway, sounding anxious.

“Don’t come in here!!” She shouted, louder than intended. The sound of his boots on the floor stopped abruptly as he obeyed her plea. She hissed as she pressed on a blister forming on her palm from the scalding coffee grounds, a small “ow, ow, ow,” trailing from her lips in a quick mutter.

“Are you hurt? Ollie, let me—” The heel of his boot scraped against the floor as he started to move again.

“NO!” she snapped, halting him again. Her entire face felt flushed and tears stung her eyes. Whether it was from the pain of her burn or her abundant embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. More than likely, it was a combination of both. She chewed her lip, a small whimper escaping her as she choked out a sob, curling her knees into her chest where she sat on the floor, the mess of frozen coffee remnants around her. The sound of her crying brought Julian into the kitchen, and this time she did not protest. She was too embarrassed, now that she had been discovered. He didn’t comment on the mess or question her position on the floor. Instead, she saw his shadow fall over her as he knelt in front of her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She tucked tighter into her knees, sniffling again, and he clicked his tongue as his thumb gently traced the red splash over her foot, making her toes curl in an attempt to get away from the sensation of leather on her burned skin.

“Are you okay, my love? Let me see,” he coaxed gently, his large palm tracing a line from her shoulder to her elbow. She didn’t lift her head, but she stuck out the burned hand, carefully uncurling her fingers. He hummed as he appraised the injury, holding her hand gently in his with the palm facing up. Her fingers quivered as he gently pulled his thumb across the burn there as well, a small hiss escaping her lips. He sighed and lifted her hand to his face, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Well, it’s not a serious burn, but it’ll sting for a few days and scar if you don’t take care of it. What on earth were you doing, anyway?”

She peeked up at him through her bangs, blinking away the tears that still threatened to pool and spill over from the small hint of scolding in his gaze and his tone. Picking her head up fully, she heaved a sigh and rested her chin on her arm.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she grumbled. He snorted a laugh and sat back on his heels, offering her one of his typical grins.

“Well, you managed that. Though I would much prefer a surprise that _didn’t_ make me worry about you.” She groaned in embarrassment and scrubbed her unburned hand over her face.

“I just wanted to make you coffee. I know it’s your favorite, but we never have coffee here. Only tea. I just wanted to do something special for you today,” she whined. There was a beat of silence before she opened her mouth again. “It was a stupid idea.”

He arched a brow at her as he got up to retrieve one of the healing poultices she’d made and a bundle of bandages from a drawer. Removing his gloves, he started to carefully cover her burns with the minty-scented salve. She inhaled sharply at the first contact, her shoulders bunching up, but she slowly eased back into a relaxed position as he gently rubbed the medicine in and dressed the burns.

“I don’t think it’s stupid at all, my dear,” he assured, tying off the last bandage around her foot and pecking her forehead. “But why today, of all days?”

She shot him an incredulous look, laughing and shaking her head. “You know why.” That mischievous smirk crawled upon his lips, and he shrugged.

“Do I?”

She reflected his grin with her own and crawled forward, pushing him off of his haunches onto his rear and pinning him to the floor with her hand on his sternum. She caught his lips in a playful kiss as she straddled him, nuzzling her nose against his once she pulled away.

“Happy birthday, my love. I’m glad I can celebrate it with you,” she purred. His confident smirk from before fell into a flustered expression, a rosy blush crawling across his face. He swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered, “and, uh…me too.” She laughed as she got up, wincing as she put weight on her foot and felt the bandages settle and adjust. He sat up quickly and stabilized her. “Did I wrap it too tight?”

“No, it’s fine. I just don’t think I’ve ever tried to walk with a bandaged foot before.” She placed her hands over his on her waist and smiled to reassure him. “But I’m okay. Now about the coffee.” She trailed off and glanced over her shoulder at the mess of the coffee brewing kit. He picked himself up off the floor and dusted off his pants.

“Will you let me help you this time? As much as I love taking care of you, I don’t want you to get any more unnecessary burns for my sake,” he chuckled, sidling up beside her at the counter top while she tried to pry the slightly thawed ice chunk of coffee grounds off of the counter. She pursed her lips and glanced up at him through her lashes.

“That…that would ruin the point of it being a birthday present,” she grumbled under her breath. He bumped her hip with his as he snickered, starting to heat a new batch of water on the stove and placing a new filter into the brewing kit.

“Nonsense, my dear. Just spending time with you today is the best birthday present you could give me.”


	2. Day 3: Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gruseome, angsty stuff based on the field medic AU I saw floating around a while ago that’s basically canon, I think? Anyway, depending on your stomach for gore, this might be hard to read.

“Stay with me, soldier. Come on, now. You’ll walk this off,” he heard his own voice—his eerily calm, reassuring voice that didn’t match how he felt in the slightest. His hands shook while they tried to staunch the generous flow of blood from the gaping wound at the man’s torso. The medic band on his arm felt like it was burning, his coat too tight and stifling all of a sudden as he met the eyes of the soldier beneath him. There was so much fear in those unfocused eyes. So many questions that he couldn’t answer.

_Why was this happening? Why was it him? What did he do wrong? Could he have done it differently?_

_Could he have ever been saved?_

With grief and confusion frozen on his features, eyes looking to the sky, the soldier sighed out one final breath. Julian clenched his jaw hard, swallowing the sorrow burning at the back of his throat as he reached up to close the man’s eyes. He clenched his fists, palms slick with blood that made the brown leather shine, and he rose to his feet and spotted more of his branch.

“Hey, get a stretcher! This man deserves to be returned to his family!” he shouted at them from across the back lines, swallowing the voice crack that broke the word “family” over his tongue. These people out here… They all had families. Why was he here, trusted with their lives? What could he possibly give? He had the same amount of training as the other medics, yet people still died. He couldn’t save all of them. What was the point?

“Hey, medic! H-help me!” a panicked voice to his side called, pulling his attention away from his inner demons. A soldier crawled towards him, dragging a leg heavily behind him with a wince. “I-I think my…my leg, it’s…I can’t—oh gods,” he rambled as Julian approached him. The doctor placed his bloody hands on his shoulders, trying to stabilize him.

“Listen to me,” Julian said as calmly as he could. The man looked up into his eyes, the terror in them making cold sweat trickle down his spine. “You will be fine. You’ll make it out of here. You’ll see your family again. But you _have to fight._ Don’t give up,” he assured him. What was he saying? Why was he lying to these people? He didn’t _know_ if this man would survive his wounds. And if he did, he couldn’t be sure that it wouldn’t become infected and kill him anyway. Was false hope really that helpful as a mental anesthetic to them? He chewed his lip as he pulled a leather strap from his medic bag, tying off the soldier’s leg at his upper thigh in an attempt to slow or stop the bleeding. After making sure that the tourniquet was secure, he hoisted the soldier onto his shoulder, standing slowly to stabilize him and making his way back to the medic tent.

Once there, the surgeon in charge noted the pallor of the wounded man on Julian’s shoulder, looking to him for an explanation.

“I don’t know how long ago he was wounded. He was still bleeding when I found him,” Julian reported, helping the man to an open, makeshift medical table.

“J-javelin. It was a javelin. I pulled it out and it just got worse, the bleeding. Oh gods, there was so much blood,” the soldier weakly mumbled, his hands and lip quaking. The man’s complexion was a ghostly white, the shock turning his lips blue. Julian swallowed past a lump in his throat. One would imagine that they would get accustomed to the gnarly sights of war wounds as a medic, but he was still too sympathetic. Still wanted so much to do more to take these people’s pain away. When the man’s leg wound was cleaned, the surgeon in charge clicked his tongue after examining it and moved to the table of tools. Julian knew what that meant. He felt the blood drain from his face as the higher-ranking doctor checked the teeth on a saw. He looked back down to the wound, noticing the white of his femur bone peeking from the chewed up, deep red-purple flesh. The javelin must have arced just perfectly to unseam his leg like that, nesting in the meat of his thigh at an unforgiving angle and settling just above the knee. Even if that muscle were to somehow heal, which was highly unlikely, it would never be of use to the man again. It was only sensible to amputate. Still, Julian hated this part of the field medic gig. The screams that he could hardly drown out even at a safe distance from the tent, the sound of the saw against meat and bone…luckily he wasn’t at a rank that permitted him to perform such an operation. He’d been asked to supervise enough, asked to hold the patient down while the surgeon worked, but he had never been the one to do it.

Another field medic came into the tent, a man with a seeping chest wound and poor color draped over his shoulder, blood dripping from his lips.

“Sir, this man isn’t going to live much longer if he isn’t treated right now,” the field medic insisted. Julian looked back to the man on the table that he had carried in, then looked to the surgeon and waited for his call. The surgeon’s eyes met Julian’s as he handled the saw.

“Devorak, you’ve supervised amputations multiple times, correct?” He asked, his eyes sharp. Julian felt bile crawl up the back of his throat as his hands grew clammy inside the gloves. He wouldn’t…

“Y-yes, sir,” he nodded, attempting to keep his voice level. He prayed to anything that would listen that the surgeon in charge wasn’t about to say what he thought he was going to say.

But his prayer went unanswered.

“I need you to take charge of your patient while I take care of this man,” he commanded as he pressed the saw into Julian’s hands. “You’ve got experience, boy. Steady hands. We need to free some tables quickly, or other people will die because of it.”

Julian looked down at the saw, grip tightening and leather squeaking against metal. He felt lightheaded all of a sudden.

“Devorak,” the surgeon in charge snapped, making Julian’s head shoot up from his daze. “That’s an order.” Julian’s posture suddenly straightened as he nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

He moved back over to the soldier he had carried in. If any color still existed in the man’s face at all, it drained completely when his eyes levelled on the saw in Julian’s hands.

“N…no…please, no! I can heal! It’ll heal! It’ll be fine,” he cried desperately, trying to wrestle free of the assisting hands that held him to the table. He was tied down to the table by a large belt at the waist, cinched so tightly that his hips could hardly squirm with the strongest of efforts. His free, healthy leg was restrained as well, and medical assistants practically pinned the man’s torso with their entire body weight. A sheet was draped around the leg he was being prepared to lose, and a cloth gag was offered for him to bite. The tourniquet Julian had set on the field was constricted as tight as humanly possible on his upper thigh, and Julian set the saw down on the soldier’s pale, blood-drained skin, a measured distance above the grisly wound. Despite all the preparations being completed, he hesitated. He glanced back up to the soldier, who looked at him with tear-filled eyes the size of dinner plates, the gag in his mouth catching some of the snot and tears spilling from him. One assistant tried to speak to him, to convince him to start the procedure, but he couldn’t hear anything past the sound of blood pounding in his ears. His vision narrowed to a pinhole, black creeping in around the edges. _No. You can’t pass out now, Ilya,_ he steeled himself and started into the man’s leg with a strong forward push.

The man’s scream pierced his deafness, making his throat constrict, but still he continued, hyper-aware of the sound of the saw against the man’s flesh amidst his throes of agony. It didn’t take long for the soldier’s consciousness to fall away, letting the assistants rest slightly as his writhing slowed.

 _You killed him,_ a voice in the back of Julian’s mind prodded as he hit bone, his breaths coming out in shallow pants from both the physical and mental effort. No, no, he wasn’t dead. The pain made him faint. That was normal. This is normal. This is helping. This is _helping._ He had to keep repeating similar arguments to himself as he continued the procedure, unable to tear his eyes away from what he was doing.

_This is what helping looks like._

 

A gasp shook him from slumber, his nose pressed against the wood of a familiar table. His head shot up, eyes darting around the warm, amber-lit tavern like a cornered animal. His sudden movement had toppled over the half-full tankard of whatever he had been drinking, pooling around the five other empty cups that littered his table. He closed his eye to banish the screams that were still echoing in his head from the memory of a dream, but all he could see when he closed his eyes was the severed leg, quickly being wrapped and taken away while the other assistants dressed the wound, patting him on the shoulder for a job well done. His stomach turned as he forced his eye open again, trying to swallow down the bile crawling up his throat. It wasn’t the last amputation he had performed, but it was certainly the most memorable. That’s the funny thing about first impressions.

He shivered and crossed his arms on the table, using them as a pillow beneath his chin. He hated the pain that throbbed behind his temple as the memories rose up to greet him, making his insides twist in horror as they remembered everything. He was all about physical pain, usually. Delicious, enticing _physical_ pain. But he only craved it because it blocked out the abysmal pain in his head, the rending of his mind from the memories of war, memories of other hurts that he had no cure for. Physical pain felt so damnably _good,_ because it numbed his mind like the alcohol he chugged down. It kept the mental pain at bay. It had been something that he felt ashamed of at first, craving to be beaten and bruised. But now? Now it was old hat. As old hat as the nightmares that reminded him why he drank.

“Hey, Barth,” he croaked, clearing his throat and shooting a smirk to the bartender as he lifted his head and brandished his empty cup. “I’ll take another.”


	3. Day 4: Blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flowery hillside makes for a perfect picnic spot for two lovesick fools! And who's ready for a game of "spot the life lesson?" No? Okay.  
> Julian x Olivier (fem!MC), as always.

It was a sunny Vesuvian afternoon like any other. Insisting that his birthday was more than a one-day affair, Olivier had packed baked sweets and sealed jars of tea into a satchel and dragged him out to a secluded clearing on the outskirts of the city center. There, a grassy hillside gave refuge to an explosion of wildflowers, some in every color scattered like confetti against the green backdrop. It looked like something out of a dream. Something that only magic could conjure. Perhaps it was magic that conjured it. He wouldn’t put it past her, at least.

Julian laid out his coat after shucking it off, using it as a makeshift blanket for their small picnic. The sweetness of the baked goods mixed well with the subtle bitterness of the chilled tea that she had packed, and the scent of flowers and warmth of the sunlight provided an atmosphere that positively oozed relaxation. He felt like time didn’t exist in that place. Perhaps it was once again something he could chalk up to her magic. Or perhaps it was some effect that she had on him. Not a conscious magic that she cast, but an ethereal one that she exuded without effort.

The afternoon drifted along around them—birds chirped and sang while they flew overhead, bees tucked into the flowers around them and made themselves busy on a beautiful day. They’d whiled away the time talking about nothing of importance, basking in one another’s company while clouds drifted by.

Ollie had eventually taken to plucking some wildflowers with evident purpose, though Julian wasn’t sure what that purpose was. That is, until she deftly spun their stems together, weaving them in and out and around one another until she had a circle of blooms in her hands. She turned to him with a mischievous glint in her eye, pouncing on him before he could protest and setting it on top of his head.

“That’s quite the look,” she laughed, sitting back to admire her work. Julian held still, trying to look up past his unruly hair to see the pastel blooms of purples, pinks, and blues popping against his dark auburn locks. He offered her a pompous, mock-regal look, and she chuckled at his act, placing her hand over her chest and dipping her head in a playful bow. “My liege.”

He beamed at her, feeling warm from his head to his toes when she smiled at him like that. “How do you do these things so easily?” he asked, pulling the flower crown off and placing it on her head instead.

“What things? Flower crowns?” she muttered, absentmindedly plucking more flowers from the grassy hillside and starting on another. “Honestly, darling, it isn’t anything special. Most children can do it,” she shrugged. He hummed out a protest, gripping her wrist and pulling her down on top of him as he laid back. The flower crown tumbled from her head and landed inelegantly on his face, making him splutter to keep the petals out of his mouth as he snatched it away.

“Not the flower crowns, love,” he insisted after recovering from the attack of the fragrant headdress. “Well, not _just_ the flower crowns, at least. Everything you do. It feels so warm. You’re such an inviting presence, and I can’t help but feel like I’m taking advantage of your kindness somehow.” He laughed coyly, grinning in a way that hid his self-loathing. It was a smile she could recognize, and he knew he’d been caught when her eyebrows furrowed, looking so sad so suddenly. He opened his mouth again, stopping himself to think before he said something too ambiguous and hurt her more. “Perhaps not…taking advantage. That might not be the right phrase. More like—er, more like giving me more than I deserve?”

She pursed her lips and levelled a glare at him. Oh, now he’d done it.

“Ilya, how many times must I tell you? You deserve all of this. All of this and more!” Her heartfelt declaration was punctuated by a firm grip on his bicep. He let his arms snake around her waist as he let out a low snicker.

“Yes, I know, I know you feel that way. And I’m trying to wrap my head around that. Truly, I am. It simply isn’t as easy as you might think to suddenly start liking yourself and believing in yourself after…years of telling yourself otherwise,” he sighed, letting his gaze fall from hers as embarrassment and shame swelled in his chest. She leaned down and stole his lips in a swift and brief kiss, breathing encouragement into him as she combed her fingers through his thick hair. The warm affection in her eyes made his toes tingle and his stomach knot, thawing the icy pessimism that had frozen and clung to his heart. Her eyes left his, trailing up to something just above his head. He angled his chin up to see what she was reaching for before she brought it back into his field of vision. There, between her thumb and forefinger, was a red flower bud, swollen but not opened.

“You are quite a bit like a flower bud in that way, I suppose,” she suggested, twirling the stem thoughtfully.

“Oh? I’m not sure I follow.” He cocked his head to the side, searching her soft expression for answers.

“Well, most wildflowers grow just fine on their own. What nature provides them with is enough to sustain them…to make them thrive,” she glanced around them to the blooms that surrounded their picnic spot in abundance. “But sometimes, what nature provides isn’t enough. Sometimes, flowers get planted where they are never meant to grow. Dropped by a bird or an errant wind, or perhaps dragged in by a traveler, it will not bloom on its own no matter how much it tries. It did not choose to be planted in a foreign environment. At best, perhaps it can take root and grow some semblance of strength and resilience in this new place, but it cannot become what it is expected to be on its own despite its best efforts. However, careful nurturing from some other force can sometimes make up for whatever that flower lacks.” An amber glow spilled from her fingertips and swirled up the stem of the flower, pooling in the center beneath the unopened petals. Then, as the pooling light pulsed and grew in strength, one by one, the petals opened until a star-shaped flower with a deep black-red center was revealed in its full radiance. The new blossom in her hand looked different from the others around them—it was richer in color and larger in size, and it very easily dwarfed the other wildflowers in beauty. “See? With some nurturing, what looked like a sad flower bud destined to wilt on its own turned out to be something remarkably different…something special. But it couldn’t have been expected to bloom and reveal its beauty without help,” she looked away from the bloom in her hand and back down to Julian, “and it certainly wouldn’t have been fair for the flower to blame itself for that.”

“Ah,” he mumbled flatly, swallowing the lump in his throat. He could think of no better response. A spiral of emotions pricked at him from all sides from her assessment. Is that truly what she thought of him? Surely he couldn’t be so special as to deserve _her _brand of nurturing, though. It was simply too much to wrap his head around. But…she insisted he was deserving. Who was _he_ to possibly question _her?_ He wracked his brain for the words to respond, but for one of the first times in his life, he came up empty. She must have noticed the frantic racing of his mind, because she only laughed softly and cupped his face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone affectionately.__

__“Nothing to say, my sweet flower bud?” she teased, though the mirth in her eyes showed no wickedness, not even the playful kind that was so common for her. He slowly sat up to meet her face, hand falling gently against the side of her neck to pull her into a sweet kiss. He tried to say everything he couldn’t with words with that one action, putting the tangled-up knot of emotions twisting in his chest into the kiss, building with passion as he nibbled on her bottom lip. She sighed out a small sound, arms curling around his neck and pulling him closer, _closer,_ her chest pressing fully against his as she met his desperate advances. She did her best to understand his message, though it also caused her mind to fog with longing the deeper his kiss became. After they were both breathless, he let the hand at her waist fall to her hip, running the length of her hipbone with his thumb as he slowly pulled away from her mouth._ _

__“You’re a very patient nurturer, my love. I would think that I’m not the easiest flower to bloom,” he whispered against her lips with a smile. She hummed in thought, seeming to weigh his words carefully._ _

__“That’s not true at all. I’d say you’re very close to opening up, actually. You just need a bit more care, a bit more time… maybe more water and less alcohol,” she nodded, that playful glint returning to her eyes as she twirled a lock of his hair in her fingers. He chuckled breathlessly, letting his forehead rest against hers as he plucked the blood-red blossom from her hand and tucked it behind her ear._ _

__With another kiss planted on her cheek, he leaned back and examined her. “That’s a tall order, my dear. But then again, I never even thought I’d make it _this_ far.”_ _


	4. Day 5: Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~This chapter is a day late because formatting was a nightmare and I didn't have time yesterday to deal, oof. Sorry!~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Went with a different format for this one. It focuses around letters exchanged between Portia and Julian, buuuut it's still got Julian x Olivier vibes. Because I love those nerds. Enjoy!

Portia was a force to be reckoned with. That much was true.

Julian had taken to exchanging letters with her again, now that she knew where he was. Rather, she knew the vicinity he lingered in. More often than not, the letter exchange occurred when Olivier would visit the castle to “investigate further,” secretly sliding a letter into Portia’s hands or receiving one and tucking it away.

Lately, though, their letters had taken a sour turn as Portia exhibited a concern for his well-being that she didn’t often show so blatantly in person. Her words were careful and thoughtful where her face-to-face personality was more no-nonsense than that. 

_My dearest and most stubborn Ilya,_ a letter had started one day, making him chuckle into his tankard of ale while he lounged at the Raven like most other nights.

_Just so you know, I worked hard for the position that allows me to be this bossy. But never mind that._

Her retaliation to his teasing remark from his last letter to her, he noted. He had mentioned how she had grown strong, but grown bossy as well. He continued to tease that she might have retained more of the salt from home than she believed. His amused smile fell the slightest bit as he continued on.

_Ollie is here to help you. From the stories you’ve been sharing, I know it might be hard for you to trust someone, or to **want** to trust someone. But she worries for you constantly. We talk often when she’s here at the castle. (Girls will be girls, you know.) I worry about **her** as much as I worry about you, honestly. I know you’re good at hiding and running, and I hope that you stay good at it, but…_

There was a deeper space between the words at that point, making him think that she had paused to think about how to continue from there. 

_But I worry that, if the day comes that you **are** caught, Ollie won’t think twice about jumping in to save you. In fact, I know she would. But Milady will not take kindly to that, I think. She, like you, has a hard time trusting, and I worry that any small glimpse of possible betrayal could ~~knot a noose for Ollie too~~ be bad news for her. I worry about you always, but my concern is spreading to encompass her, too. You have a lot in common when it comes to self-sacrificial mindsets, actually. That day, when Milady brought her to the castle and commissioned her to capture you so you could pay for your crimes, I was so scared. But somehow, we were lucky. Somehow, she ended up being someone that sought true, objective justice and not just fame or glory from bringing you in. I couldn’t be more grateful to whatever lucky star made her cross Milady’s path. …Sorry, I’m not sure what I’m talking about anymore. _

Another space. This time, the words were scribbled on a new line, like an afterthought…or perhaps a continuation after walking away for a moment. 

_Look. Just be honest with yourself and be honest with her, too. I think she’d worry herself into an early grave with assumptions before she forced you to say what you are always thinking outright. Well, more than you usually do. For all that she is doing to save you, she deserves to at least be treated with honesty._

_Love, Pasha._

He hummed into his mug, nearly empty, and leisurely tossed the letter into the hearth as he rose and crossed to the bar for a refill. This was the only way they could safely communicate, though he wished it were easier than that. He wished he could hold the letters close to his chest, to keep the words of his cherished sister near to his heart always. But if he was ever caught, the letters would be too incriminating. He couldn’t tear down what she’d built for herself just because of selfishness.

As soon as he had the freedom and the resources—namely, the resources at the small magic shop he’d started to frequent again—he penned his reply in the scrawl that somehow only his sister could understand.

 _Darling Pasha,_ he started fondly. _My, how I missed your scolding after all of our years apart. I truly did. How else would I know you still love me? That being said, you should know by now, dear sister, that honesty is **not always** the best policy. Don’t you understand that I want to keep Olivier safe? To keep you safe? Even now, as I write you, I worry about what these letters could do to your reputation. You’ve built such a lovely one, after all. And now we are dragging Olivier into this as well? I truly wish that you would refrain from involving even more people I cherish in this unlawful correspondence. Just being uncertain that you are truly burning these letters, as was agreed upon, is enough to shorten my lifespan, and that is something that is already **hanging** precariously by a thread. Or a lever, perhaps. …Oh no, I’m missing the punchline by a **neck** , aren’t I? (I only jest, of course. I have no intention of being caught any time soon.) _

_Also, Pasha. I know you can see right through me. I know you know my feelings. The ones you insist I be honest with. But how is that fair to Ollie at all? I want to live, damn it, but I don’t want her to fail and die in my place. So much of this is so precarious. How can this resolve where we are both happy? This fleeting time with her has to come to an end sooner or later. It is my fate. I will not seek it out nor push her to lead me to it, but when the time comes that she must make the choice between her own well-being and **mine** , I want to make it as easy as possible for her to choose herself. It isn’t fair for me to confuse her. She has her agreed-upon duty pressing her one way, and I have the consequences of my actions pushing me another. I hope you can understand that. What we have now doesn’t have a title, but it isn’t complicated for that exact reason. It is what we both want._

_Ilya_

He sighed heavily as he placed the quill down and skimmed over his writing. She was asking something of him that was impossible. If things had been different…No, he wouldn’t even tempt the thought. Things were what they were. It was foolish to pray upon something that never was or would be. 

He folded the letter into a small square, sealing it and placing it on the counter for Olivier to pick up the next time she was heading to the castle.

  


It was a few days before Ollie returned with a letter, arching her brow conspiratorially as she pulled the parchment from her sleeve and offered it to him one day in the shop. He laughed at her show of being stealthy, even if it was just for his sake. He kissed her cheek as he accepted the letter, squeezing her in a tight embrace.

“I really do appreciate your willingness to do this for us, my dear,” he cooed as he nuzzled into her hair. She giggled at the ticklish feeling of his breath stirring her tresses, returning his hug.

“Anything for you, love. I’m just happy to see you two communicating with one another,” she said with a smile, bouncing off to tidy up the shopfront. The giddy atmosphere that had surrounded them came crashing down around him when he opened the letter and jumped back as a cascade of white powder tumbled from the folds of the letter and to the floor. He would have to clean that up before he left, wouldn’t he? He clenched his jaw in frustration and started reading.

_Ilyushka, your morbid humor is not funny. And no, I did **not** laugh at it. I can hear you insisting that I must have as you are reading this. _

_Don’t worry, my anxious brother, your letters are being burned as we agreed. And no, I don’t understand your reasoning. I don’t think I ever could. Your overdramatic love for your own misery is lost on me. I don’t understand why you cannot just be honest with her, and be honest with **yourself**. You make her happy, you know. When she isn’t worrying about you, that is. Doesn’t she make you feel happy too? Isn’t that enough to make you want to chase that feeling? All of this wishy-washy affection is probably hurtful to her, though she’d never tell you that. But if it is enough for you, it must be enough for her, is that it? Do you truly believe that? Are you honestly letting your selfishness take the reins right now? _

He could almost hear her sigh as he noted her line break. _Don’t worry, I know you have the best intentions. You always do. You don’t think you have any other options to keep us all safe, right? But know that you are the only one who thinks this suffering is necessary. Ollie has so much confidence that she will find something to redeem you. I believe it, too. We both have a terribly infuriating suspicion that you are an innocent man, but I know you won’t hear **that** from anyone. **Especially** from the sister that thinks the world of you._

_Oh, and did you like the salt? I could feel it coming off of the page from your last letter, so I scraped it from your bitter words and sent it back. Your thanks isn’t necessary, but you’re welcome regardless~ It’s a valuable resource, after all. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste._

_Pasha_

He looked down to the mess of salt on the floor, clicking his tongue in annoyance. What a time-consuming and expensive point she was making… 

“Ollie, you wouldn’t happen to have a broom handy, would you?” he called into the shopfront. In a moment, she was back, eyes darting around for something out of place or broken. When her gaze fell on the salt pile at his feet, she snorted a laugh and covered her mouth, easily surmising what had occurred.

“Portia _did_ say that you had enough salt for all of us,” she chortled.


	5. Day 6: Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter incoming! Sorry i got carried away, but I had a lot of fun writing this chapter! 
> 
> **Depression is a major theme in this chapter, and there is a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. If you are sensitive to these topics, please read with caution!**

It wasn’t often that his negative thoughts got the best of him anymore. At least, that was how it seemed to her. He would crack a self-deprecating joke and be too honest of his darker thoughts about himself at times, but that would be a hard habit to break. He had at least been more receptive, more _reactive_ to her concerns as of late.

But today? Today, his thoughts were dark, like the gloom that choked the sunlight. And although she hated it every day, today she hated it most of all. 

Because today was his birthday, and he was the one who was the least excited about it. 

Olivier had went behind his back to set up a lovely dinner at Portia’s cabin for that evening. The handmaiden had done everything in her power to set up a way for them to sneak in undetected, planning to feed them with flavors from her and Julian’s home. Ollie had jumped at the idea, even working her own magic by baking sweets for the first time in forever. But the day had started out poorly. She had awoken beside him, and tried to rouse him, but he had curled further into himself, insisting to her that he had simply not slept well and would be out of bed soon. She had complied at the time, moving down the stairs of the shop to make herself a morning pot of tea. She went through all the motions–setting the pot on to boil, caging a blend of tea leaves and herbs in an infuser and placing it in her mug, and munching on the heel of a loaf of pumpkin bread from her favorite bakery while the water heated. She had even started into a tome of healing herbs absentmindedly with her finished tea while she waited for Julian to come down.

But she surmised that an hour had passed before she gave up on listening for him on the stairs. Feeling worried for his health, she had gone back up the stairs to check on him. He was exactly where she’d left him, curled into himself and facing the windowless wall. She crossed the room, coming to rest at his side of the bed and leaning over him to press a soft kiss to the furrowed brow above the unpatched red eye. He was staring blankly forward, gaze distant. 

“Ilya, my love, what’s the matter?” She spoke softly, squeezing into bed with him and curling her limbs around him, concerned gaze levelling with his. His eyes met hers, almost looking apologetic. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it and closed his mouth again, a slow sigh easing from his nose. She clicked her tongue softly, smoothing her thumb over his brow in an attempt to ease the intense crease in it. His arms, which had loosely snaked around her when she’d invited herself into them, squeezed her tightly to his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. She felt her own brows furrow as she returned his embrace.

“What in the world for?“ She asked, a light and incredulous chuckle shaking her shoulders. 

"This. Me. Being this way. I very much dislike you seeing this part of me,” he grumbled. “Usually, on days like this, I would have gone to the Raven and been in two or three drinks by now. But I just…couldn’t today.” She balled her fist in the fabric over his shoulder blade, pressing her cheek to his chest and humming. 

“Well, even if I don’t like the reason why you didn’t end up there, I’m glad you aren’t at the Raven at this time in the morning. If Bartholomew served you a drink before noon in _this_ state, I would have some choice words for him,” she grumped, making him laugh softly. She pulled back and smiled up at him, sweeping the hair from his face and placing a slow kiss on his lips, which he sluggishly returned and combed his fingers through her still bed-mussed hair. After breaking the kiss, she rested her head on his arm and simply stared at him for a few moments, making him tilt his head quizzically. “Ilya, I love you. Every part of you. When you’re being suave and debonair, when you’re afraid but still acting brave, when you use that silver tongue to get us into as much trouble as it gets us out of… Even when your demons get the best of you, I love you. You do not need to apologize for this,” she said carefully to him, cupping his gaunt cheeks in her hands to hold his gaze. “I just want you to let me help you. You don’t ever need to face the darkness in your mind alone again. Just let me be here for you.” 

He bit his bottom lip, trying to tear his face away from hers so she wouldn’t see the tears shining in his eyes. He attempted to rub them away with his thumb and forefinger, shaking his head. Damn, he hated how easily affected he was when he was in these moods. “I don’t deserve this,” he muttered out, a sheepish cough of emotion-tainted laughter shaking the words from his mouth. “All of this love and acceptance, the strength you bolster me with. I can’t possibly…” He shook his head again, the hand not falling away from his eyes. She went to bark a protest at him, but thought better of it. He wouldn’t hear those words right now. Scolding him as he was now would only make matters worse. All he needed right now were words that assured.

“Loving you costs me nothing but time spent daydreaming, Ilya. But it costs me a lot to see you hurting. I can shoulder some of your pain to ease it, but I cannot be asked to stand by and do nothing. I _must_ give you this. I must. Otherwise I’ll lose myself. It is not a matter of deserving or not deserving, it is a matter of having nowhere else to put all of these feelings for you. If not in this, then where? If I keep them inside and do nothing with them, I’ll probably explode. So I _must_ care for you like this. I can’t think of any other options,“ she shrugged casually. He bit his lip harder, pulling her against his chest to keep her from looking at his face. 

"Thank you, Ollie,” he croaked, his hold on her growing tighter still. She could hardly breathe under the weight of his embrace, but somehow it was a comforting form of discomfort. When the strength of his hug seemed to fade, the momentary rush of emotion dimming from a flare to a glow, she pulled back to see his face again. She swiped a single tear from his red eye and leaned up to kiss the sharp cheekbone.

“Oh, and, happy birthday, my dearest. I’m beyond amazed that you are _mine_. Would you… come downstairs so I could give you your first gift of the day?” She smirked at him. He blushed and gave her a confused look. 

“ _First_ gift?” He squeaked. She laughed and backed out of the bed, weaving her fingers into his and pulling him up. 

“Don’t overthink it. It might be horrible anyway, but I tried my best,” she admitted. Before she could pull him too far, he scrambled and reached for the eyepatch that lay discarded on his side of the bed. She caught his wrist before he could grab it. He glanced up at her with apprehension, but she pulled his hand up to her face and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “It’s just us here. You don’t have to.” She successfully pulled him to his feet, leading him down the stairs to the tiny kitchen.

“Anything you do could never be bad, my dear,” he encouraged weakly in response to her lack of self-confidence from before, the shadows in his mind still tormenting him enough to steal the usual mirth from his voice. Concern flashed across her face before her smile returned. She pushed him down into the chair at the meager kitchen table, scooting over to the counter and pulling a plate covered by a cloth from the cabinet. She placed it in front of him and whisked the cloth away dramatically.

“Ta-dah!” she grinned. On the plate, a small pistachio cake sat, decorated with a small swirl of frosting and dusted with crushed pistachios. “I heard that pistachio is your favorite,” she said in a sing-song tone. He smiled down at the cake, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You heard correctly. It is one of my favorites. One of many.” He picked up the cake in one hand, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. It tasted wonderful, of course. If there was one thing that was undeniably true, it was the fact that Ollie was a good cook and baker. That was something he would never complain about. She waited in heavy silence, fists bunched in the hem of her shirt.

“Well?” she asked after what felt like forever. He paused in the middle of taking another bite. 

“Hm? …Oh, it’s good!” he said in a rush, not realizing that he hadn’t praised it aloud. “But honestly, how couldn’t it be? You have a way with food, Ollie.” He smiled again, a little more genuine this time, but still not fully in his eyes. She clenched her jaw in worry, but returned the smile with her own and settled into the seat catty-corner to him, in front of her tome of healing herbs that she’d abandoned before. 

“Well, I’d never made that particular recipe before, so I couldn’t be sure. I’m glad you like it, though.”

Silence stretched between them again as he worked on the cake and she returned to her reading. This was normal for them. If they ran out of things to say, the silence was also comfortable. But today, there was something thick and heavy about the silence. Still, she pushed past it and continued through the tome, Julian’s eyes skating over the words too.

“Mm, I need to get some more lavender,” she mumbled under her breath as she reached the section of the page that mentioned it. “It mixes well with teas.”

He snorted a small laugh out of his nose. This was normal for her. Grasping at some possible topic of conversation to get a response from him. It was often how they lost track of time, taking about nothing important.

“You know, I used to put lavender in my…in my mask. I preferred the smell over a lot of other herbs. That and camphor, amongst a few others. It seemed I wasn’t the only one though, as it started to run on short supply after a while in that time,” he mumbled, remembering his days as “Doctor Jules” with little fondness. 

“That makes sense. It _is_ used for relaxation. Says here that some people use it for insomnia as well. Wonder if it would help you sleep,” she muttered back, still rather absorbed in the text. He felt tension rise in his shoulders, sucking in a slow breath and releasing it.

“No, I don’t think it would. I think it would bring back too much. Too many bad memories.” He looked ahead, seeing the patients he’d helped again in his mind’s eye as he took another bite of the cake. There was something hauntingly strong about the connection between smell and memory, and he didn’t want to ever go back to that place. She broke from her trance of reading at his words, seeming to suddenly remember herself and realize what she’d just suggested.

“No, you’re probably right. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” she backpedaled. He chewed his last bite of the cake and shook his head, dusting the crumbs from his fingers. 

“Don’t worry, my love, I know,” he soothed. He blinked away the visual memories playing through his mind, glancing down at the book and tracing the lines of the lavender illustration with his eyes. “You know, it’s funny. Most people say that memories grow fonder over time. That the hurt fades away and leaves behind something to look back on. But I don’t think that’s always true. Maybe it’s because I can’t…” he paused, letting his head rest in his hands and scrubbing over his face to shake away the mental exhaustion. “There are still things I can’t remember. If my memory was _sound_ , maybe I’d know what to look back on with fondness. But for now, I just have what I know and what the people around me seem to know.”

She looked up at him and pursed her lips, worry creasing her brow. “We’ll find your memories, Ilya. They’ll come back to you.” 

He huffed a short, curt laugh. “Yes, well…I don’t know what will happen to me when they do. There are so many things that I don’t understand about my _own_ actions, and that’s so…so _infuriating_. What was I thinking that night? What did I actually _do?_ What was keeping me there? Was it this?” he gestured to the eye with the red sclera as his gaze drilled into the table, as if the wood grain would somehow give him his answers. Ollie clenched her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms. His turbulent mood was taking an angry turn as his voice rose in steady increments, and she blamed herself. If she had just left it alone… “And if I had been captured for my crime, why did I try to escape? Why _did_ I escape? Why did I run from the hangman’s noose if I wanted to _die_ then like I do—” he stopped himself before he could finish that declaration, his eyes widening in fear at his own words. Did he really think that way? He came back to himself when he felt Olivier’s hand clenched in his sleeve. He glanced up to her face and felt a lump form quickly in his throat. She had her hand pressed to her nose and mouth, containing her frightened sniffles as tears streamed down her face. 

“Ilya, I don’t want you to die,” she said, her voice sounding so shaken and _small._ It tore right through him.

“N-no. No, of course. I’m sorry, I…I was just…” he tried his best to explain himself, but he lacked the words. For a moment, he had looked too deeply into the pessimistic, dark enigma in the back of his mind and had taken too long to look away. It had beckoned him closer, begging him to give in, and for a moment, his mind had weakened. “Ollie, I didn’t mean it. Maybe at one time, that was true, but not anymore. I don’t want to die anymore. Why do you think I’m running so much?” he laughed weakly, trying to lighten the mood with little success. Gods, no, he didn’t really want to die. Not now, especially when they were this close to getting answers. Not when he had been reunited with his sister. Not when he had found a place in the heart of a certain magician’s apprentice. Not when _she_ had found a place in _his._ He pulled her into his lap, soothing her by slowly stroking her hair as she choked out the last bit of her fear against his chest. The dark cloud that had surrounded him that morning finally broke when he was able to see what it was doing to her.

“I know you have a lot of hurt,” she started meekly, “but I don’t want you to give up. I know it is hard some days, but…I’m here for you. Portia is here for you. Ilya, you’ve made so much progress already. You’re healing, _changing_. Baby steps. It only needs to be baby steps.” She curled into his chest as his arms held her there, the silence losing its heaviness from before as they basked in one another’s comfort. After a few moments, she placed her hand on the left side of his chest, inhaling slowly as she felt his heart beat. 

“Thank you for living. Thank you for being strong and staying alive. I don’t know what life would be like without you now,” she mumbled, letting her head rest against his shoulder. He tightened his arms around her in a firm embrace.

“Thank you for giving me reasons to keep fighting, darling. You have no idea how much strength you give me,” he whispered into her hair. “Now…what other gifts are there? You _did_ say that cake was only my first.” He shot her a cheeky grin, finally succeeding in lifting her spirits. She swatted his chest and chuckled softly. They exchanged a look of reassurance as the mood around them finally shifted into the excitement that should have been there to begin with.

“Patience, my dear. You’ll get them in time.”


End file.
